


seeing is (eventually) believing

by dioscorea



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21997255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscorea/pseuds/dioscorea
Summary: “Croc,” he says, bent over in laughter, trying to catch his breath. “Killer Croc. And GQ.”“Obviously!”“Obviously,” he repeats. Holy shit, he hasn’t laughed this hard in a while. His face hurts.Five times Harley tried to show Flag something, and one time he finally saw it for himself.
Relationships: GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones, Rick Flag & Harleen Quinzel, Rick Flag/Floyd Lawton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 208





	seeing is (eventually) believing

**Author's Note:**

> This got away from me, but then what hasn't. Apparently my brain's new agenda is Let Harley Have Friends 2k19 but you know what? Could be worse*, so why not.
> 
> I tagged the Flag/Lawton to be on the safe side but it's incredibly minor, as a warning in case that's why you're here.
> 
> *like the angsty hanahaki fic where GQ is coughing up plume thistles. don't mind me, I'll just be over here, putting on my clown shoes

1.

He thought it was just an innocent question. He should have known better.

"Is GQ single?"

Rick startles. "Excuse me?"

Harley is looking at him upside down from her makeshift swing. "Is GQ single," she repeats slowly, like he might not understand the individual words.

"Why?"

She shrugs. Or he thinks she does. It doesn't really translate well upside down. "Asking for a friend."

He narrows his eyes. "You don't have friends."

She rolls her eyes. From the angle she's at, it's incredibly disconcerting. "Rude. I have friends! The team are my friends." He laughs, and she swings upright to glare at him. "Don't laugh! Just answer the question."

He can't find an immediate trap, so he shrugs. "Far as I know." She looks immensely pleased, and fear knifes down his spine. "Don't—"

She waves him off. "He's very pretty, but not my type," she says, and relief rushes through him. She hops down from her perch and sashays over. "Which is good, since you know who's type he is," she whispers, like they're not the only ones in her cell. 

"I can't possibly express how much I don't care," he says flatly. He's not in the mood for Harley's games today. They're supposed to be on their way to medical for her implant check, not gossiping. Time and effort have done nothing for his ability to get Harley to immediately do what he wants, to his unending chagrin.

She ignores this. "What's the rule about workplace fraternization?" she asks. Rick very carefully keeps his expression bland.

"There isn't one," he says.

"Great! Then they're in the clear." She pirouettes and sticks her hands behind her back, and he watches her carefully as he unlocks the bars, moving to cuff her. 

"I don't want anything to get in their way. They're taking too long as it is," she says darkly, and he frowns, starts leading her to medical. 

They make it a couple hallways in silence before she gives a gusty sigh. "They are just so dumb, you know? I thought maybe the hold up was because GQ already had someone, but if he doesn't, then they're just being purposefully stupid, which is even worse." She fiddles with the cuffs and he tightens his grip on her arm. 

"It’s painful to watch. The star crossed lovers! One heart yearning for another!" she declares. Rick can imagine the sweeping arm motions that would accompany this if she wasn't in custody. "You should be concerned."

"That you're off your meds again?" he drawls. 

"No, for the team," she insists. The dramatics disappear, and that more than anything else gets his full attention. 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Cohesiveness. Trust. You know, important crap," she says. "They could really fuck this up for everyone. I know you wouldn't want that."

"Harley," he says slowly. "Who, exactly, are you talking about?" 

"You know," she dismisses, and turns to head into medical.

He pulls on her arm and she stumbles back into the hallway. "Tell me anyway."

She looks at him, and her eyes go wide as she searches his face. "You mean you _don't_ know?"

"No," he grits out. "So enlighten me."

She looks at him in disbelief. "GQ and Croc," she finally states.

Rick stares at her. Then he starts laughing. 

“Stop _laughing,_ ” she whines. “Why are you laughing?”

“Croc,” he says, bent over, trying to catch his breath. “Killer Croc. And GQ.”

“Obviously!”

“ _Obviously,”_ he repeats. Holy shit, he hasn’t laughed this hard in a while. His face hurts.

“What, you got a problem or something?” she bites out. “That funny to you, two guys together?” Her face is thunderous, and he sobers instantly, staring at her with his hands still braced on his knees.

“Of—no, of course not,” he says, bewildered. “Where the fuck did you get—I don’t care about that at all.” She looks incredibly unamused. “It’s just—you’re talking about Croc. Our Croc. Who has one expression, and it’s ‘done with this shit’. What in god’s name makes you think that Croc likes GQ?” He rubs a hand over his face as he straightens. “They’re friends, I’ll grant you that,” he concedes. “But GQ is friends with everyone. That doesn’t mean they _like_ each other.” He hates that he put the emphasis on like. He’s not in god damn middle school. 

Harley studies him for a long moment. He shifts his weight, inexcusably uncomfortable. There’s a lot going on here that he’s not a fan of. 

“You’ll see,” she finally says, and spins on her heel to go into medical.

Lawton slips out before the door closes, rubbing his own injection site and eyeing her warily. “What’s up with her?” he asks.

“Don’t ask,” Rick mutters. 

Lawton looks between Rick and the door again, but thankfully keeps his mouth shut. He claps Rick on the shoulder instead, tugs him a little down the hallway. Rick follows without any real thought. 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you lost your cuffs,” he says casually.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t tried to put another set on,” Lawton jabs back. Rick lets the corner of his mouth quirk. Lawton starts rambling about his daughter’s latest letter, and Rick lets the sound wash over him as they head back to his cell. 

2.

“Why are they sitting like that?”

Rick looks up from his tablet long enough to glance around the cabin before going back to his report.

There’s a poke to his shoulder. “Harley,” he warns.

“Flag,” she parrots back. “Come on. Why are GQ and Croc sitting like that?”

"You mean in their assigned seats? Where they need to be, because we're flying back?" 

"Assigned seats, sure," she scoffs. "Assigned by who? GQ? What if I want to sit next to Croc?" He gives up on his reading with a sigh, shoots her his best unimpressed raised eyebrow. "I might, you don't know. But I can't," she says, suddenly leaning in right next to his ear, and Rick gives a minute shake of his head when he notices Bernhart tighten his grip on his rifle on her other side. "Because GQ is always already there." She gives him what he assumes is supposed to be a meaningful look before leaning back, looking satisfied with herself.

He shifts his eyes over her shoulder towards the two men at the other end of the bench. Croc is staring out the window determinedly—no surprise there. He hasn't had a repeat of his first disastrous flight since GQ told him to watch the horizon, but that could be chalked up to Croc's sheer fucking will; just telling someone a helpful trick doesn't mean it's actually helpful, especially when evolution itself is determined to keep you on the ground. 

GQ is slightly worse for the wear than he usually is. He's got his eyes closed as he wedges himself tighter into the crease where Croc's side juts out of the chopper wall, trying to get more room between him and Bernhart on his right. His right arm, thanks to an unfortunately-timed dislocated shoulder, is tied close to him out of what must be someone's sweatshirt, the metal teeth of a zipper gleaming against folds of plush gold velour. Rick watches as Croc adjusts his massive bulk to curve around him, and GQ gives him a small smile as he leans into him more. His arm is completely out of Bernhart's way, now. That guy never can sit still; the jostling had to have been driving GQ nuts. 

"That's a good point," he says, and Harley leans back in, attentive. "Nine people, nine seats, plus GQ didn’t lollygag to stare at a jewelry display like you did. So he got to him first. You want to sit next to Croc, try getting on earlier." She scowls at him before turning away to stare out the window, and he shakes his head. He notices Lawton giving them an amused smile from across the aisle and he rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. Lawton's mouth tilts more before he looks away. Rick makes a mental note to talk to Waller about getting Harley some more books. Preferably some nice, boring non-fiction. It’s looking like she needs a break from the romance novels.

3.

"I’m just saying, for two people you insist don’t like each other, this is weird," says the voice at his ear. He shifts his grip on the thighs pressed against his waist and keeps walking. 

"This could have gone much differently, and yet here we are," Harley continues. "You’re usually so good at noticing things, you had to have finally noticed how weird—"

"What," Rick grits out, "is weird. Everything we _do_ is weird; if you want an answer you need to be more specific." The arms around his neck tighten threateningly, and on his next step he hikes her up abruptly, waits just a beat longer than he should before he catches her on her way back to the ground. She laughs and eases back on her grip. 

"This," she says, patting his chest with her palm. "You carrying me."

"You can't walk," he states flatly. "But my apologies. I didn't realize this was such a hardship for you." 

"Oh Colonel, don't be like that." She runs a hand over his hair and he shakes his head, tries to lean it forward out of her reach. "You're very brave and very strong, my true hero." He can hear the laughter in her voice and briefly imagines dropping her for real. He growls a little instead and the laughs breaks free. "Wrong team member. The one who wants that is over there. And isn't awake to enjoy it anyway."

"Please tell me we're not back on this," he mutters towards the ground.

She stops trying to pet him like a cat and he breathes a sigh of relief. "Why are you carrying me?" 

He looks over his shoulder at her in disbelief. "Why am I carrying you? Mission, bad guys, explosions—me saying 'Harley, watch your feet on that rubble', and then you definitely not watching your feet on that rubble? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"My heels broke," she says sadly. 

"Your ankles broke, Harley."

"Those too," she says, and swings her legs gently. The makeshift splints on both her ankles catch against his pants as they move. The morphine injection he gave her was a godsend at the time, finally getting that look of excruciating pain off her tear stained face, but she hasn't knocked out yet and now he's stuck listening to her chatting incessantly as they head towards ex-fil. "I didn't ask why you're carrying me," she says, and Rick reaches deep for more patience. "I asked why you're carrying _me_. Croc could carry me. In those incredible arms," she sighs dreamily. He snorts a laugh. Clearly the morphine is working better than he thought.

"Yeah, should have given you both to him. Then I could walk like a normal person without a deranged spidermonkey attached to me." 

"Don't be mean," Harley pouts. She carefully wraps her legs around his waist, keeping her lower legs out of the way so they don't take on any weight, and he lets go and shakes his arms out a little while he has the opportunity. "And he doesn’t need _both._ I meant it, you're strong. You could be carrying GQ, and I could be the one Croc's holding like a princess." 

"You're not the one who's unconscious," he points out. "And you're the one who climbed on my back in the first place." 

"Same problem with the chopper," she yawns. "Don’t tell me you were too busy focusing on my pretty face to remember how that happened."

Rick remembers. Rick remembers with perfect clarity the moment the building next to them exploded and GQ, taking point, was gone, somewhere under the rubble. Harley was climbing up before the smoke fully cleared, and he yelled at her to get down but she kept going, and then he _really_ yelled at her, and she turned to scream back _he's there, I know he's under there_ when she lost her footing. Croc was after her in a second, pausing only long enough to get her legs straightened out from underneath her, before he was up the slope and digging furiously into where she was pointing, rubble flying out around him. Rick rushed through a cursory check on her, desperate to join the search, but by the time he had finished Croc was already headed back down, GQ unconscious in his arms. He was covered in grime and bleeding steadily from a gash on his temple, but he was breathing, and Rick forced his hands to be steady as he checked him over. Croc didn’t put him down, just held him gently through everything, and walked away the moment Rick nodded his approval. Most of the SEALs followed Croc’s lead—lot of good having command does around here, some days—and left Rick to deal with Harley, who held both her arms out and waited with unexpected patience while he finished pulling himself back together.

“How could I possibly forget that he's injured,” he grits out, and pushes the images from his mind. He doesn’t need to think about what would have happened if Croc wasn't there to reach him so fast, or about the relief that threatened to overwhelm him at the knowledge that as long as Croc had him, it was as safe as GQ could get. 

She pets him again, probably trying to be soothing, before rearranging her arms. He hooks his own together under her ass so she can take some pressure off her legs. Her chin thunks down into his shoulder painfully. 

"But Croc got him. And then he wouldn't let him go," she says quietly. "Not even for you." He's vaguely flattered she thinks Croc would do anything for him out of something other than obligation.

“And now look at us,” he deadpans, suddenly not liking the mood they're both in, “you with your apparent Croc dreams still unfulfilled, and me relegated to an underpaid jungle gym with your pointy-ass elbows giving me bruises.” She giggles a little. He refuses to smile. “It’s truly a terrible day.”

“You never listen to me,” she mourns. “I’ve been telling you this whole time you didn’t have to pick me up.”

Sure, someone else could be carrying Harley, even if Croc's taken out of the equation. Any guy on the team could do it without breaking a sweat, forget about their training—she was five feet nothing and maybe hit 130 pounds sopping wet. But he didn't hesitate to hoist her up; rolled his eyes but held still as she shimmied around to his back, and ignored the alternating distrustful and confused looks from the rest of the team as he headed after Croc. 

"Not that you'd let Bernhart touch me," she murmurs. She sounds like she's finally passing out, small mercies. "That guy sucks,” she mutters, and he’s thankful she can’t see him grimace in agreement. “Doesn't like me and can't keep it off his face. Thought it was a woman problem at first," she says, and huffs a laugh. "But this is me, so. We can both probably guess which one it really is." He stays quiet. He _doesn't_ like the way Bernhart looks at her, and it never crossed his mind to even consider letting him carry Harley instead, but it wasn't something he thought she'd notice. He forgets sometimes that Harley had a life before this, where she looked into people and saw how they worked. He's glad whatever she sees in him lets her trust him these days, though he'll never say it to her face.

"This is nice, though. You're warm." She rubs her cheek against his shoulder briefly, settling down. "Princess carry next time though," she says into his neck.

"No next time. You're not gonna do anything that will need it," he murmurs back, quieter than he meant to. 

Her laugh is barely a breath. "Princess carry. Don't gotta make eyes like Croc or nothing." She settles her cheek firmer on his shoulder and he listens as her breathing evens out, her arms loosening slightly from where she's locked them around him. 

Make eyes like Croc. What does that even mean. Unimpressed? Hungry? Generally angry at nothing in particular? He shakes his head, adjusting his grip again slowly, not wanting to jostle her back awake. Ahead of him he can see Croc shift GQ as well. GQ's head is tucked firmly into Croc's shoulder, and he wiggles slightly—a good fucking sign, even if it means he's harder to hold. Rick watches intently as Croc looks down at him, tension stark on his face. Surely it can't be from holding him; he hasn't found anything Croc can't stand carrying over long distances yet, despite admittedly trying once or twice out of perverse curiosity. But GQ calms after a moment, tucked further into Croc's chest, and the tension fades, replaced by something Rick can't quite parse on those harsh features. 

He shakes his head again, glad Harley's not awake. But he thinks about her words, and if he doesn't say anything about Croc refusing to let go of GQ, even once they're in the air, that's nobody's business but his.

4\. 

Rick is only half listening as Waller slogs through her weekly You're All Terrible And I'm Watching You speech. The briefing had dragged on longer than usual and he's itching to get out from under that piercing stare. They held a tenuous grip on their farce of a partnership, both holding strings the other pretends they don't have, and Rick has long stopped caring about not paying attention. Lawton and Harley have spent the past five minutes flicking a pen cap across him at each other whenever Waller's back is turned, and he's been making bets with himself about how long it'll take before she reams them out. One pass comes dangerously close to hitting him and he slots his eyes warningly towards Harley. She bats her lashes at him, the picture of innocence, and he rolls his eyes. The pass after that does hit him, and he turns his head to glare. 

She glances across the table for a second before looking back. He doesn’t know what she wants, and she looks at him despondently before looking away again, longer, raising both brows. It takes a moment before it finally clicks, but he turns his head.

Croc and GQ are directly across from them, staring intently at a tablet. Rick remembers GQ asking to look at schematics of the base they're set to infiltrate next week, Waller grudgingly sliding them over. Now they're—he glances at Waller before tilting his head slightly, trying to get a better view—playing sudoku? He bites back a laugh. He watches, amused, as GQ leans into Croc, weaving an arm between where Croc has braced his own on the table, tapping at the screen. Croc immediately taps back, and GQ frowns, leaning closer, before breathing a quiet laugh and sitting back again, grinning up at a smug-looking Croc. 

“—Who else will be assigned,” Waller finally fucking finishes.

“Grant, Pickard, Benjamin, Stone,” Rick rattles off, not bothering to look away from the men across from him. There’s angry muttering from one of the seats along the wall, but he knows exactly who it is and ignores it. He turns a deceptively placid expression on Waller. “Any other info I can get you?”

She frowns. If she wants to embarrass him in front of his junior officers, she’s going to need to do a hell of a lot better than that. “Not at the moment. Dismissed.”

He stays in his chair as the room empties, rolling his neck. When he eventually makes it out into the hallway, he’s greeted by the sight of Lawton, neck craned back as he debates hairstyles with Harley, who’s wedged herself into the top of the open door jamb across the hall. 

“Why are you like this,” he sighs, and gives in to the urge to sink back against the wall.

“I’m bored. You were taking too long,” she says blithely, and beckons Lawton over, climbing onto his shoulders before flipping down to the ground. 

“Where’s your escort?” He pales suddenly. “Please tell me they’re conscious this time.”

Lawton smirks. Harley waves him off. “They’re fine. I told them you’re taking me back since I have to talk to you anyway.”

“I don’t know what’s more concerning,” he says, starting down the hall. “How bad that lie was, or that they believed you.” 

“Definitely the latter,” Lawton says. 

“And you’re here because?” 

Lawton shrugs, grinning. “Can’t a guy want to spend some down time with his favorite team leader?” Rick stares. “Or his beautiful co-worker, who happens to have some great gossip?”

He turns a baleful glare on Harley. “You told him.”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” she says, hands held up placatingly. “I merely corroborated what he saw, using his _eyes,_ which you refuse to do.” She hops a few steps in front of them and spins to continue walking backwards down the hall. “But you saw it today! You can’t deny it!”

“GQ wasn’t even trying to be subtle,” Lawton chimes in.

“Jesus, not you too,” Rick whines. _Whines_ , christ. He is a grown man in charge of some of the most dangerous people in the world, and he's out here sounding like a betrayed six year old. This situation has gotten completely out of hand.

"He really doesn't believe it," Lawton says to Harley, surprised. She shakes her head sadly.

"Believe _what,_ " he says. "That Waller needs to update her firewalls? Yeah. That Croc can successfully carry him when he's hurt? Sure. That they sit next to each other a lot? Okay, they do that too. We sit next to each other all the time," he says. Lawton looks at the floor, a small smile on his face. "Doesn't mean anything."

Lawton frowns, still looking at the ground. "You're not looking at the context." Rick throws his hands up in frustration. 

"I don't need context. If there's anyone who needs something, it's this one," he says, pointing at Harley, "because she's used sitting together twice now, and it wasn't even convincing the first time."

"Seriously, man," Lawton says quietly, a strange note in his voice. "You need to look at the bigger picture. It means something."

Rick looks imploringly at Harley—for what, he can't imagine, since this is her fault in the first place. She's looking intensely between him and Lawton. "I'm surrounded by idiots," she declares. Rick splutters angrily but she ignores him and spins back around. 

That seems to be the end of it. He'd like to think the topic is permanently closed, but he knows better. He's not that lucky. 

He leaves Lawton in the doorway to see Harley into her cell. But before he can leave her arm shoots out between the bars to grab his sleeve, and he raises an eyebrow at her fist.

"Thanks," she says simply. He blinks, and her fist tightens. 

"For?"

"Bernhart," she says. "You didn't have to do that."

He meets her gaze steadily. "Yes," he states firmly. "I did." 

Her eyes are wide and unblinking. She nods once and lets him go, heads over to start poking at her incomprehensible expresso machine. He watches her for a minute before turning away.

"You two seem to be getting along," Lawton says once they're back on their way. 

He shrugs, tries not to let the knot of feelings in him show on his face. He's not used to letting himself be seen when he allows himself to be what passes for gentle anymore. He hasn't had much reason to since June. It feels slightly fraught, with Lawton, but not unwelcome, just—new again. It's a good thing he doesn't feel like it's something he needs to hide. He doesn't think he could, anyway, not from those keen eyes. "She's team. Team looks out for one another."

"Normal teams, sure," Lawton agrees easily. "But this one?" He makes a small questioning hum and they fall back into an easy silence. "It's good though. She deserves that," he says suddenly. Rick's taken aback by the feeling behind it. He mulls it over as they keep walking. 

"You know it's not just her," he starts. He goes to say more but pauses, not sure how to continue. He finally gives up and looks at Lawton instead, now resting casually against his own cell door, that small smile back on his face. 

"Yeah," he says. Rick stares at him, but he doesn't seem much inclined to say anything else about it.

Instead he holds up a hand and a pack of cards materializes out of nowhere. "You busy? We could get a rousing game of Go Fish going." 

Rick snorts and pushes at his shoulder to get access to the lock. He has a dozen reports to read—he can't thwart Waller's random info grabs unless he stays two steps ahead of her—but he can do it later. 

"You gonna cheat again?"

"Me? Cheat? That's offensive. I am offended," Lawton says, and leads him into the cell.

5.

What a god damn clusterfuck this job can be. Mostly is. Whatever. 

He weaves through a tangle of medical equipment and abandoned diving gear. There's a wetsuit on the ground, torn and bloodied, and he grinds his teeth. He helplessly counts heads for the umpteenth time. It's reflex at this point, and close to calming, now that the rescue is over and the count of four has risen back to seven.

He stops against the wall by the door, the urge to protectively circle his team abating as the hubbub dies down. He can feel the migraine he's been staving off the last thirty-two hours settling in now that he doesn't have anything else to focus on. He's going to need to have a long talk with Waller about what constitutes necessary intel; he refuses to lose team members just because she wants to hoard all the info for herself. He rubs at his temples. He needs to sleep. Or eat something. But he'll shoot someone before letting anyone other than himself be the last one out of the room, so he walls it all off and forces himself to be patient. He makes it ten seconds before he starts counting again.

Harley is over in the corner with Croc, head close to his and speaking rapidly, hands moving as quick as her mouth. He can't hear her over the noise around him, but Croc doesn't look like he wants to rip her throat out yet. Instead he's listening intently to whatever she's saying, but he's stiff in his chair, and his eyes start flicking over her shoulder repeatedly. Without either acknowledging it or skipping a beat Harley shifts to her left, and Croc—Rick blinks, but the sight doesn't change—visibly relaxes, apparently now able to see better while he listens.

Rick surveys the room. No visible threats, no Waller, all base personnel Croc's worked with before. Team is all still here. Boomerang is dragging his IV pole around so he can keep bothering Katana, Diablo is trying and failing to blend into the wall, and Lawton's got GQ boxed in on the gurney he's sitting on. GQ has his head tilted towards him, scratching at the IV site in his arm, and he flinches slightly when he accidentally hits the needle. He's also looking over Lawton's shoulder intermittently, which is concerning. He doesn't know what those two see that he doesn't. 

In an unseen but perfect imitation of Harley, Lawton slides to his left, and GQ sits back, gaze turning steady. Rick doesn't know what is going on, but he doesn't like it. He pushes away from the wall. 

GQ notices him heading over first and gives him a nod. "Hey boss."

"You good?"

"Yeah. Just dehydrated. Got a couple more bags lined up for later," GQ nods towards his IV. His voice is rougher than gravel. Rick takes in the deep bruising along his arms, the angry red lines scoured into his neck. His lips press together tightly but he only nods, crosses his arms to hide the sudden twitch in his trigger finger. 

"No worries," GQ croaks with a lopsided smile. "Croc fucked them up." It's a relief, if unsurprising, but he still can't stop staring. There's a smear of hastily wiped away blood that disappears into the side of his shirt collar, bright and bold against the abraded skin.

"My man, that is an understatement," Lawton says, and Rick drags his gaze away. "Couldn't believe it was only five guys when we got there. Amount of parts looked closer to twenty." Dark satisfaction curls deep in his chest. Those would not have been fun last minutes of being alive. Fuckers deserved every moment of it. 

GQ has gone back to looking past them; Rick coming over must have pushed Lawton back into his line of sight. He half turns in time to see Croc looking steadily back. 

But not at Rick. 

He turns curious eyes on GQ—not that he picks up on it—and takes one deliberate step to the side. Lawton doesn't even glance at him as he follows him over, and there it is. Clear line of sight to Croc, and GQ settles back fully into conversation. 

Lawton sounds like he's trying to make a case for having cooler kills this mission and he tunes him out, turns his focus back to the corner. Harley finally finishes with a quick grasp of Croc's wrist, and heads over to their little group. 

She squirms in-between him and Lawton and leans against him. He doesn't bother moving. "What was that about," he asks quietly. She stays silent, and he glances up at the group before taking a page out of her book, pushing her a little with his hip. She rolls her eyes. 

"Nothing. Teammate stuff." It absolutely was not nothing, but he drops it for the time being. 

"You okay?" He can't see any bandages on her, but that means jack shit. She's the only one without an IV though, which is hopefully a good sign. 

"You know what the problem with sodium pentothal is," she says. He grimaces. "What you get is not particularly helpful, or sometimes even truthful, since the subjects become highly sensitive to suggestion. They _suggested_ I should tell them everything I know." She tilts her head back to catch his eye, and grins. "So I started at the DSM-IV and worked my way up." 

"That's my girl," he murmurs. 

Her smile fades and she drops her head. "Except they—GQ, he was the one who—"

Well, shit. That explains some things. He'll deal with it during reports tomorrow. 

"Hey," he says, nudging her again. "It's fine. He's fine. Now I'll ask again: are you okay?"

The silence stretches, and he wonders if it's worth trying to order her to answer. "Tired," she finally says. 

He motions to Katana before he catches Croc's eye and jerks his head at the door. Croc, ignoring how GQ is mid-sentence, starts shuffling him off the gurney. GQ goes easily enough, just spins in place when necessary to keep arguing with Lawton, trusting Croc to keep him from running into anything.

It's a long trudge down the halls due to their unspoken agreement to stay in a single group, and by the time they've finally dropped Lawton off after one of his claps to Rick's shoulder, even Harley's pigtails are drooping. 

He jingles the keys to her cell after locking it, but doesn't leave. "You haven't said anything about the looks," he says slowly. He tries not to mind verbalizing a capital L. She's had a rough couple of days, he can stand to play along.

She gives him a one-eyed squint as she rubs at her face, smearing makeup everywhere. "You noticed the looks?"

"I noticed the looks," he confirms. 

"And?" she asks, perking up a bit. 

"And what," he says. He didn't think he would need to participate more than this. He just wanted to give her something that wasn't 'using a chair properly'.

"What do the looks _mean,_ " she prompts. 

"The looks mean that they've just been through some traumatizing shit and need to be reassured the other one is either alive or within sight range. I don't know, I assumed you would tell me. That's usually how this goes."

She sighs. "I'm starting to think you're doing this on purpose."

"I noticed something else, too," he says. 

"What."

"GQ walked back under his own power." There's no response. He sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "Croc's arms were open. He could have princess carried you back."

Harley stares at him blankly for a long moment. Slowly dragging a hand up, she points right at his face. "You're the worst."

He gives a small smile and turns to leave. "So I've been told."

+1.

"Okay, it's weird," he says without preamble, walking straight up to the bars of Harley's cell. She glances up from her book, amused. 

"Hello to you, too. What's weird?"

He gives her a warning look and she grins. "Not fun when the tables are turned, huh." She marks her place before setting the book aside. "Come on, tell me, now that you're dying to talk." 

"I'm not—" he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. "I went to see Croc about his visitor list," he says, and she nods sagely. He doesn't waste time trying to figure out how she already knows about his latest reward. "And when I got there—" he stops, still trying to parse it himself. "Well. GQ was already there. In the pool," he intones, trying to put together the pieces.

"You're surprised they swim?" she asks honestly, head tilted. 

"No," he replies absently. "Be more surprised if they didn't. But it was just him in there." Harley blinks, and climbs off her bed to join him at the bars. 

"He said they'd been swimming for awhile, but there was a big splash right when I started unlocking the door," he continues. Harley suddenly looks like she's trying desperately not to laugh. "And his clothes were piled on the floor."

"Oh, you're so close to getting it," she says. "And? Croc was?"

"On the couch."

"And his clothes were?" she asks pointedly. 

"Also on the floor." He blinks. She nods at him, and he blinks some more. "Jesus Christ."

"There it is," Harley says proudly. "Knew you could do it."

"Jesus _Christ_ ," he says again, with feeling. "They—I almost—"

"You sure did, honey," she says, and reaches through to pat his arm.

"You were right," he says miserably.

"I'm always right," she says, tugging on his sleeve until he gives in and leans against the bars. "You should listen to me more."

"How did I miss this," he wonders out loud to no one in particular.

"Waste of money for your supposedly fancy training," she notes meanly. "But I told you. For _weeks._ " She pokes hard at him and he sways with it. 

"You meant it though, right?" she asks somberly, and once again he's surprised at how fast she can flip that switch. "You're okay with it."

It's not a question. He doesn't let himself pause. "I am," he says, deliberately matching her tone. She studies him for a moment, and he forces himself to keep his face as open as he can. There's no reason to lie about this, and she seems to see that, a small smile appearing in the corner of her mouth. 

"It'll be good to see Croc happy," she says, looking content. Rick has serious doubts that any of them are going to be able to tell if he is. Though Harley's pretty convinced she can. Lawton, traitor that he is, would probably say he could too. 

GQ will, he guesses, but Rick doesn't think he's going to see him around their quarters for a while, and he is absolutely not going to go looking for him to confirm it.

"Them both happy," he corrects gently. She hums, leaning her back against the bars. 

"Now that that's done, we can move on to more pressing matters," she says. 

There's something in her voice that immediately puts him on edge. "What? Next briefing is in a couple days, nothing to worry about yet."

"I'm not talking about the briefing," she dismisses, and turns back to him with a glint in her eye that makes his hackles raise. 

She smiles threateningly. "Have you ever noticed how Floyd's always sitting next to you?"


End file.
